Vapidity
by Frannie-pants
Summary: Sam didn't talk about Jess.


Written: 2.17.2011_  
_**AN: **This is quite possibly the most depressing piece of literature that I have ever written. It's kind of an AU through season one, but there are spoilers for the season two finale. Dean is pretty dark in this. I've never written in this style with a refrain before, so let me know what you think please. (:  
Also, the rating is for vague references to self-harm and suicide, along with a few f-bombs.

**Vapidity— part 1**

Sam didn't talk about Jess.

Sam didn't talk about Jess, and Dean wasn't pushing. Days went by, then weeks. Sam became thinner, sicker, and quieter. He spent more time in his own head than Dean would have liked, ideally. But Dean ignored it, because all that mattered was that he had his baby brother in the passenger seat again. If Sam was happy, he wouldn't be here. So Dean preferred this version of Sam. It was better than no Sam at all, by a long shot. It didn't matter how Sam came to be here with him, it simply mattered that he was.

Sam didn't talk about Jess. Every single night Sam woke up screaming, his nightmares growing worse every time. Every night, he heard it. A single tear would slide down his cheek in response to his brother's pain. Dean would cry for his brother, but he'd never let him know it. If the subject came about, Jess would come up, and Dean just couldn't have that happen. He'd shed a few tears, but he wasn't going to say a damn word. Sam was still here, and he wanted it, _needed _it to stay that way.

Sam didn't talk about Jess, and Dean knew that he was a selfish bastard.

Sam didn't talk about Jess and it was killing him. Dean had hated Jess in the time that he knew her. He hated her and everything that she stood for. She was Sam's happiness away from his brother. She was proof that Sam cared about someone more than Dean. He hated her, but _God, _he hadn't wanted her to die. Sam was happy with her. Happy without Dean. It wasn't fair. He loved his brother more than anything, and his brother didn't need him anymore. All he wanted was his little brother to love him more than anything, to need him again…

Sam didn't talk about Jess and Dean didn't care. It didn't matter that Sam had chosen Jess over him, because Jess was gone. Jess was gone (_dead_), and damnit, he was all Sam had left.

Sam didn't talk about Jess and Dean thought that was alright. Sometimes, he'd never say it out loud, but sometimes he was happy Jess had died. Because she died, Sam came back to him. It was dark and horrible, but he was happier this way. He just wished that Sam was, too.

Sam didn't talk about Jess, and Dean pretended not to notice. He also pretended not to notice the fact that Sam didn't sleep at all anymore. Sam would go crazy if he didn't sleep, but Dean wouldn't say a word. The same way he pretended not to notice the blood in the sink, and the half-assed way Sam always tried to wash it away. The way that Sam wore long sleeves every damn day, even in the heat. Sam never smiled anymore, not even the fake ones he used to put on to appease Dean.

Sam didn't talk about Jess, because he was coping. (_He was coping…right?) _Sam was coping. There was no other option. Sam was still here with him, so he must be coping. That was enough.

Sam didn't talk about Jess, and Dean wasn't sure if that was a good thing anymore. It had been enough until he got back from the burger joint and Sam didn't open the motel door for him. Enough until he saw the empty bottle of sleeping pills next to Sam's unmoving body. (_not corpse, couldn't be corpse)_ He faintly hears himself yelling, but doesn't remember deciding to yell. But he yells and yells as he runs, but it all feels like slow motion. Blurry, and not vivid at all, like a dream. But it wouldn't be a dream, this would be a fucking nightmare.

Sam didn't talk about Jess, and Dean can't find a fucking pulse. (_No, no, no, no_) He can't find Sam's pulse, and _fuck_, why was this happening? He didn't make Sam talk about Jess; he thought that was a Goddamn good thing. He tries CPR over and over again, because he's just so damn desperate. It takes him a while to realize that he left Sam alone for hours, and that Sam had probably been not breathing for all that time. (_Not breathing, Jesus…_) Sam's gone. (_He's fucking gone_) He feels for a pulse again, but he can't help but fucking _hope_…

Sam didn't talk about Jess, and Dean doesn't know how long he's been sitting there next to Sam. Dean looks out the window and its pitch black outside. He numbly gets up, and brushes the limp hair out of Sam's eyes. His hand lingers on the top of Sam's head, and he stumbles towards the door.

Sam didn't talk about Jess, and Dean knows what he has to do know. There was never any question at all. Sam is never going to leave him again.


End file.
